Whither Thou Goest, I Will Go
by Angst Is My Middle Name
Summary: History AU. Col. McCoy commands the 35th Georgia Infantry, and his right hand man is the young and bright Maj. Kirk. Set during the American Civil War in honor of the 150th Anniversary of the war. Rated for blood.No language.


**_This little plot bunny bit me and just would not let go, so I had to write it._**

**_A/N: This is honor of the 150th anniversary of the American Civil War and the brave men who fought on either side, whatever their reasons may have been. The 35th Georgia Infantry was a real regiment and was at all places mentioned herein. Both sides also had commanders who attended West Point Military Academy. The West was rife with conflict, especially the Indian 'Wars', which I have labelled as such for historical accuracy. I have tried to be as historically accurate as possible, but any mistakes will be lovingly corrected if nicely pointed out. Also, I have tried to keep the boys as accurate as possible, keeping their ages the same as in the film, but there have been a couple of little changes._**

_**A/N 2: When referring to horses during this time period, 'piebald' meant any kind of white pattern on a black horse. 'Bald-faced' is a white pattern on a horse's face that takes up basically the entire face and may extend to the eyes, making the eyes blue. A gelding is a male horse over age four that has been castrated.**_

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><p>Colonel Leonard H. McCoy surveyed the scene around him. Men were running hurriedly past him, the rebel yell replaced by screams of pain and panic in their retreat. Col. McCoy watched from afar, just behind the line of artillery. He had been injured during the previous day's battle, and although it wasn't very serious, he had been advised to stay out of the action today, seeing as how he could hardly walk. It had been his own men that had urged him not to fight, and he had always taken into account the feelings of his regiment. He had moved closer and closer to the field of battle as it turned more disastrous. His horse, a handsome piebald gelding with a bald face and two blue eyes, twitched and shifted underneath him as shells pounded the ground and thundered up on the hill. He could see Gens. Longstreet and Lee further down the line. Longstreet seemed agitated, Lee seemed sad. McCoy cast his eyes back up to the hill where Gens. Pickett, Trimble, and Pettigrew had led their valiant charge, taking with them McCoy's regiment, the 35th Georgia Infantry, led in his stead by the young Major James T. Kirk.<p>

McCoy had served under Kirk's father in California after graduating from West Point in 1853 at twenty-one. Jim, like his father George, had gone to West Point at age eighteen in 1856. It was shortly thereafter that Col. George Kirk was killed in the Indian Wars. Because the boy's mother had passed when he was young, Col. Geo. Kirk stated in his will that McCoy was to be granted leave from California to personally go to West Point and inform James of his father's death. The boy had tried to be stoic but couldn't stop his tears. His father had been a wonderful man, especially to his son James, especially after the death of his wife Winona and elder son George from the fever. McCoy had met Jim a couple of times when his grandmother (also passed) had brought him out to see his father. By the time he had graduated West Point in 1860, all direct relations to him were dead, leaving him perfectly alone. Therefore, McCoy took in Jim Kirk as a member of his young family. He fit right in. He was always to help out Jocelyn and the servants around the house, and their little Joanna adored him almost as much as her own father. It was not long, however, before Jim was sent out to California to serve under McCoy, fighting the eternal Indian Wars. He was a good soldier, loyal, obedient, bright, capable of making good decisions, and commanded loyalty from his men. He could easily be a general some day.

Then came the Secession. McCoy's home of Georgia followed South Carolina, Mississippi, Florida, and Alabama on January the 19th of 1861. The news came slow to California, but when it did, McCoy knew he had to go back. Even as a Georgian and a slaveholder, he didn't really find slavery to be the best institution. It was more a necessary evil, needed for the time being but would eventually die a natural death. He at least only had a house in Atlanta, where the slaves kept house and cooked, and he and Jocelyn made sure to treat them well. Still, he had to defend his home, which he knew would not be safe forever, and so he resigned from the U.S. Army. He remembered Jim approaching him.

"You may not get it, but I need to protect my home," McCoy told him, "I know that they'll try to attack it, and I just can't allow that to happen. That's my home. My people. My family."

"Then I'll join you, Len."

"Jim, no. You don't hafta follow me just-"

"I _want_ to," the boy responded, "Look, you know I don't care for slavery any more than you do, and I _do_ love America, but… but I've got no other home. You've been awful good to me, almost like a father or elder brother. You opened up your home and family to me, so… so I reckon Georgia's my home, too. So, if you're gonna defend it, well, I guess I should, too."

Jim's blue eyes shone bright with determination, and McCoy found himself unable to do anything other than embrace him. Jocelyn and Joanna were delighted to see them, as well their newest addition: the piebald gelding with the blue eyes he got from an Indian trader. He had lovingly dubbed him Wiley. They did not have long to spend in Georgia as they were called on to take command of the 35th Georgia Infantry and go to Virginia to serve the Confederacy. They went on to fight some horrid bloody battles like Seven Days, Second Manassas, Antietam, Fredericksburg, and Chancellorsville, to name a few. They had both been lightly wounded on several occasions, but that was to be expected. It happened in California, and there was no reason for it not to happen here. Col. McCoy found himself with a stream of replacements; few original boys from the 35th were still left. He knew he and Jim were lucky to still be alive.

Only a few days ago, they had marched under Gen. Penders to a small crossroads town in Pennsylvania called Gettysburg for supplies. They had encountered some fighting but were not majorly involved. The 35th was given the task of defending some artillery and took a few casualties. McCoy himself had been struck in the thigh by shrapnel. He woke on the third day with his wounded leg throbbing horribly, needing Jim's help to mount his horse.

"Colonel… Len," Jim said, "I don't… you shouldn't ride into battle today."

"What? Why not? I tell ya, men worse than me have done it. Don't see why I can't."

"Look, I been talking to the men. They're worried about ya. They don't want ya riding in and making a target outta yourself… and… uh… neither do I. I don't wanna see you hurt, Len."

McCoy thought about it before acquiescing quietly and saying, "Then you lead 'em today, Jim."

The blue eyes went wide. He answered, "No, no I couldn't! Penders or-or Longstreet will-"

"No. The men know you. They trust you. I would have no one else lead 'em, and I guarantee they would tolerate no one else. You're ready, Jim. I have faith in you."

A shy smile came onto his face at that, and he ducked his head, blushing slightly. When the bugle sounded, McCoy touched Jim's shoulder, and Jim covered McCoy's hand with his own. The heavy feeling of dread settled in his stomach and clenched his heart and worried Wiley. He took the time to trot over to his men. Dirty, tired faces looked up at him as he rode up and reined Wiley in.

"Well, boys, I heard how y'all care for my well-being. I have been told that y'all want me to hang back today, to not make a target of myself, and even though I'm none too happy to do it, I have agreed. It's not often an officer sees this much care and affection from his men, and I truly appreciate it. Today, you'll be led into the fray by Maj. Kirk here-" a cheer "-because I know you boys wouldn't suffer no one else. No, y'all go out there and make Georgia proud, ya hear?"

A mighty cheer went up from the men. Jim moved closer.

"Thanks, Len. The men wanted awful bad to see ya. I tell ya, they're still rarin' to go, tired as they are. Still ready to fight. Amazing," he said, looking over the 35th.

"Course they are. They're from Georgia," McCoy responded, then lowered his voice, beckoning Jim closer yet, "Listen, Jim. You… you be careful out there."

"I will, Len."

"You better. We're gonna have dinner tonight, remember?"

"I remember."

"Good, good. Just… just be careful today. That's an order."

"Yessir. I promise."

Even as he rode away, the feeling of dread grew in his stomach and chest. Now, as he watched Trimble's division, containing Penders' brigade and thus containing the 35th, retreating from the hill and field, he eagerly sought out the 35th's colors. Screams of the terrified wounded echoed in his ears as he picked out his banner and galloped to meet them. A sergeant he recognized as being named Scott approached and stated, "Sir, we have lost quite a number of casualties. Likely close to forty percent dead or wounded. Some were captured. It's… it's not very good, sir."

"What of Maj. Kirk? Where is he?" McCoy shouted over the din, "Why isn't he-"

The words were choked off in his throat. Two men were helping Jim back to camp. A wound in his stomach soaked his uniform, stained it an ugly dark red. His right leg hung limp and useless, shot clean through and shattered. McCoy ordered them to the field hospital and followed close behind. He watched as they laid him on a table, limping in to watch over his comrade, his brother. They found another wound to his stomach, and McCoy knew it was hopeless. The surgeon let them be. McCoy found a clean cloth and a basin of cool water and pressed the damp cloth to the young man's brow. He was drenched in sweat but cool to the touch, his skin paling from its usual golden color, his breathing shallow.

"Jim," McCoy said quietly, "Jim… can you hear me? Are you… are you with me?"

He responded, "Yeah, Len… I'm-I'm here… 'm s-sorry… s-so sorry, Len," his blue eyes at half-staff and glazed over, slowly searching McCoy's face. McCoy gripped Jim's clammy hand tightly, keeping the other carefully dabbing the boy's brow.

"Now, Jim, what have you got to be sorry for?"

"I… I failed to k-keep my p-promise to and-and obey the order of m-my colonel, s-sir. I-I didn't… I wasn't c-careful up there, L-Len. G-got all sh-shot to p-pieces…"

"It's okay," McCoy whispered, "It's okay. It wasn' your fault. Wasn' your fault, darlin'."

Jim's lips quirked up briefly, but his labored breathing quickly stole it away. McCoy looked down at the young man before him: pale, clammy, sweating, wheezing. This was a young man he had shared his home and family with, who had followed him loyally into battle, he'd shared a tent with numerous times… who he loved as a member of his own blood, maybe closer. They had poured out their hearts to each other, held each other in dire moments. They shared horrible memories of death and gore and joyful memories of Georgia. McCoy left the cool cloth on the boy's forehead, moved to sit beside him on the table, and placed his now free hand on Jim's face. His blue eyes rolled slightly before unsteadily locking onto McCoy's hazel ones. They were wet, tears sliding from the corners and wetting McCoy's fingers.

"Len… L-Len… I'm-I'm so f-frightened… I'm s-scared," he stammered.

McCoy's thumb gently stroked Jim's cheek as he murmured softly, "Don't be scared, darlin'. Nothin' to be scared of. You're… you're goin' home to Jesus. Your gonna see your daddy, and your mother, and George, Jr. They're all waitin' for ya. Don'-Don't be scared. Be happy, Jim."

"But… I-I can't… can't… Len… can't b-be happy… missin'-missin'…"

Jim's whole body was trembling slightly as McCoy leaned in.

"Missin'? Missin' what, Jim?"

"Won't… won't be happy… c-can't be happy… you won't b-be there, Len. I'll-I'll m-miss you… Leonard… Len… I sh-shall miss you t-terribly…"

McCoy could hold back his tears no longer. He burst into tears immediately, crying in earnest, tears pouring down his face as he choked, "I'm g-gonna miss you, too, Jim. I'm gonna miss you so much," and ducked his head. Jim gripped his hand gently, and McCoy continued to stroke his face through his tears. It felt as though a vice clenched his heart. His eyes and throat burned. Jim did not survive another five minutes. His last breath struck a dark chord in McCoy, who fell to loud cries and sobbing. He wept for a young man who had held such promise, who was dear to him, who was _loved_ by him. He slumped forward, his face pressed to the young man's breast, his entire body shaking with his grief. It was a long while before McCoy could compose himself, to stop his hitching breaths and trembling limbs and leaking eyes, and go out into the makeshift hospital, but not before he pressed a chaste kiss to the boy's brow and to his cheek, very close to the corner of his mouth. He ordered Jim's body to be made ready for burial and procured a coffin, whereupon he gave orders for the body to be sent to Georgia and buried in his family's section of the local cemetery.

Col. Leonard Horatio McCoy contracted pneumonia that winter and passed away after only five days, his last words being "Be happy." His body was dutifully sent to Atlanta, where he was buried alongside Maj. James Tiberius Kirk.

"_And Ruth said, 'Entreat me not to leave thee, or to return from following after thee: for whither thou goest, I will go; and where thou lodgest, I will lodge: thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God: _

_Where thou diest, will I die, and there will I be buried: the LORD do so to me, and more also, if aught but death part thee and me'."_ –Ruth 1:16-17

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><p><strong><em>Reviews are awesome and questions are always welcome.<em>**


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